


your voice was cutting like a knife in my head

by cockybasketball



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Oops, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:26:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockybasketball/pseuds/cockybasketball
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis knows it's absolutely ridiculous but, despite the fact that they absolutely detest each other, he can’t draw his mind away from the thought of having Nick pin him against a wall and pound him ‘til he squeals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your voice was cutting like a knife in my head

“I can’t stop thinking about your cock,” Louis says, matter-of-factly, as soon as he hears the click of the receiver.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line and Louis purses his lips, impatient. “Not one to beat around the bush, are you, love?” Nick’s voice crackles in eventually, attempting nonchalance; forced calm that doesn’t fool Louis for a second. The elder falls silent again for a moment, seemingly deliberating while Louis waits for him to say something else, _anything_ , because he’s desperate, now; that’s why he’s called. “Anything, uh... Anything in particular brought this on?”

“You,” Louis says wistfully, “your _hands_ – you know you have huge hands? God, I need your fingers inside me–”

“Tomlinson,” Nick cuts in, and he sounds tired – exasperated, like he thinks Louis’ just messing with him and doesn’t have time for this now. “This isn’t funny, mate–”

Louis silences him with a long, drawn-out sigh, paces around his living room before falling heavily onto the settee in the centre of it. He sighs because he _knows_ it’s not funny; knows it’s ridiculous that even though they absolutely detest each other, he can’t draw his mind away from the thought of having Nick pin him against a wall and pound him ‘til he squeals.

“I know,” he relents. “I know it’s not funny.”

He hears Nick swallow thickly and then he’s quiet again, considering. “Is this about what I said the other night?” he asks.

Louis blushes at the thought because, yeah, of course it is. He’d never considered Nick to be anything more or less than a colossal twat, a pain in the arse, before he’d said something that made Louis wish he was a pain in, more specifically, _his_ arse.

Louis’d stood in Nick’s kitchen – dragged along to a party he’d rather have lapped toilet water than be at – the tiniest bit tipsy and leant over the counter to catch the attention of someone on its other side, when Nick strolls in behind him, slightly more sloshed than Louis, smacking him abruptly on the bum and making him jump. And then he’d leant in (to Louis’ annoyance, at the time), murmuring loud enough just for Louis to hear, “God, that arse.” Nick had reached forwards, attempting to grope at his left cheek and Louis’d pushed him away, frowning. Nick had smirked, whispered, “If I ever get you alone, princess, you won’t sit down for at least a week once I’m done with you,” and then backed off without another word, winking over his shoulder at Louis as he stumbled away.

Of course, _at the time_ this had made Louis furious; he’d stormed from the party within minutes, without so much as a rushed goodbye to Harry, too angry to focus on anything other than the exit. He spent the taxi ride home seething, breathing rapid as he cursed not only Nick for seriously crossing a line this time, but himself for not at the very least spitting something venomously back at him.

Once he was home, though, once he was actually alone, Louis found himself looking at it from a slightly different angle. He wasn’t angry with Nick for belittling him, for objectifying him.

He was angry with himself for _liking_ it.

“...Because I was planning on apologising for that,” Nick goes on, pulling Louis out of his reverie. “I don’t have an excuse,” he says, sounding a little defeated. “It was gross and I’m sorry, mate.”

“I don’t–” Louis starts, and then cuts himself off, huffing. “I don’t want you to apologise,” he tries again and tips his head back, closing his eyes, before he says, “I want you to follow through on it.”

Silence. Nick must only pause for a matter of seconds, but it feels like a lifetime, time ticking by as Louis breathes in, out. “You’re serious,” Nick says, finally, and it’s more of a question than a statement. “This isn’t an elaborate practical joke.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m serious,” he snaps. “I’m fucking gagging for it, Nick.”

“Shit,” Nick murmurs, appreciative.

They both fall silent; Louis because he’s too embarrassed to say anything else and Nick, most likely, because he still can’t believe that this is happening. Louis can’t get his head around it either, but he’s more focussed on how furious he is with himself for wanting this, wanting _Nick_ , so much.

They stay in that silence, while Louis’ brain whirrs and he tries to decide how exactly is best to handle the situation. And then Nick’s _laughing_ , for some reason, chuckling softly down the phone as he says, “Who’d have thought it, hm? Louis Tomlinson, _gagging_ to get screwed up the arse so hard he can’t even think straight.”

Louis grunts quietly and blinks his eyes open. “Please,” he hisses, on instinct, so quietly he thinks Nick’s missed it, at first.

“Alright, darling,” Nick _purrs_ , laughter still evident in his tone. “Tell me how you want it, love, how you need it.”

He’s blushing ridiculously as he does it, cheeks burning bright red, but Louis tells him what he’s craving, what he’s dying for. He’d barely considered it before Nick’s party, but the idea of being reduced to just an object sort of really, really turns him on; the thought of Nick using his arse and his mouth just to get off, screwing and screwing and not caring if he’s being too rough, not caring if he leaves Louis aching for days afterwards. He tells Nick as much, forcing himself to sound a lot more confident than he feels.

Nick makes a noise low in his throat, and Louis can hear the smirk in his voice as he quips, “God, I always knew you were a submissive little bitch.”

Louis tries to hiss out something offensive, because Nick’s still an arsehole, all things considered, but stops himself – he’s asked for this, and Nick’s giving him exactly what he wants; he’s indulging him, just like that, no questions asked.

“Bet you’re loud, when you beg for it,” Nick goes on, almost idly, like he’s predicting whether or not it’ll rain tomorrow. “Bet I’d have to get a hand around your throat just to shut you up.”

Groaning, Louis slides the hand that’s not clutching his phone into the front of his tracksuit bottoms, palming at his dick through his boxers. “I’d be good for you,” he sputters out, eyes rolling back at the thought of Nick choking him. “I’d make it so, so good for you.”

“Course you would, you nasty fucking whore,” Nick spits, and Louis keens, hips rutting up into his hand. “You’d take everything I gave you, wouldn’t you? You’d do anything I told you, regardless.”

Louis moans his agreement, taking his cock in his hand, stroking himself gently as he listens to Nick degrade him, own him. “Anything,” he whines, “anything you want. You can- you can use me however you want.”

Nick whistles through his teeth. “Imagine that,” he leers, breathing heavily. “I reckon you'd make a wonderful de-stresser, you know? I can see myself coming home after a bad day and pummeling all that aggression into you, my pretty little stress reliever.”

“ _Fuck_ , Nick,” Louis cries, and he’s wanking himself frantically now, dainty fingers sliding over the shaft of his leaking dick.

“Yeah?” Nick grunts, a little out of breath, panting almost as hard as Louis is, now. “You want me to fuck you like you’re – fuck – nothing but a slab of meat for me to take my frustration out on? Tell me, Louis.”

Louis lets out a pleading, desperate noise that he’d undoubtedly be ludicrously embarrassed about if he wasn’t so turned on. He fucks forward into his fist, hips bucking up, eyes shut tight as he pictures every foul act whispered into his ear – Nick bending him over the arm of the sofa, shoving his face into the cushions and slamming into him until he’s _sobbing_ , eyes streaming, and refusing to let up even then.

“ _Please_ , God, yes,” he begs, “ruin me, do whatever you fucking want to me, just– fuck, make me take it.”

“I’ll make you fucking take it, alright, you darling little fuckdoll,” Nick hisses out. They fall mostly silent for a moment, the only noise in Louis’ ears his and Nick’s heavy breathing, before Nick says, softly, “You close, pet?”

“Yeah, _oh_ shit, yeah,” Louis pants, because he can feel that familiar heat pooling just below his stomach; he can feel how embarrassingly close relief is as he works himself over, fist pumping, thumb catching under the head. “Yeah, ‘m nearly, fuck–”

And Nick’s obviously close himself, because he starts to talk faster, filthier, chanting into Louis’ ear until he’s squirming with it, so close and so, so desperate. “You’d be such a good boy for me,” Nick whispers, “so good. You’d let me ruin that perfect arse of yours, leave you a thoroughly-used, filthy, gaping mess. I bet- Christ- bet you'd even remember to say 'thank you, sir' when I'm done with you.”

 _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Louis thinks, and at this point he may actually be crying a little bit.

“C’mon, Lou,” Nick goes on, “come for me.”

Louis forces out one last strangled wail, followed by a string of curses and a hiss of Nick’s name, and then he’s coming, probably harder than he has in his life, all over himself. Nick must follow suit a moment afterwards, if the noises he’s making are anything to go by.

“That the kind of thing you had in mind, sweetheart?” comes Nick’s exhausted, fucked-out voice after a minute or so. He still sounds like he’s trying to catch his breath – which is flattering, to say the least – but he’s also laughing softly, a little disbelievingly.

Swallowing, Louis glances down at himself, at the come on the front of his shirt, and quickly closes his eyes again, mortified that he’s just gotten himself off to his own worst enemy over the phone. “Yeah,” he says meekly. “Yeah, something like that.”

Nick laughs again at how sheepish Louis sounds, a harsh bark in his ear that almost makes Louis jump. “You can relax, Tomlinson,” he chuckles, “I’ll always be here if you need someone to call you names or tear your arse in half, but I know this isn’t going to become a regular thing.”

“Yeah,” Louis mumbles again, cheeks scarlet, but he feels slightly reassured. “You’re still a fucking prick, but I- uh, thanks, Nick.”

“Any time, princess,” Nick chirps, and then the line goes dead.

Louis looks down at himself again as he shuts his phone off and sighs, heavily, still feeling somewhat humiliated, before he heads off upstairs to clean himself up. He takes a shower in his own self-loathing and then falls asleep still with wet hair and still furious with himself, but – somehow – somewhat satisfied.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm unsure about this one and a wee bit nervous, but it's the first thing i've finished (and am at least somewhat happy with) for a while, so.  
> title from great night by william beckett.  
> thanks, buddy.


End file.
